


Pomegranate Seeds

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Will Graham, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Top Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Hannibal keeps his rooms warm now, just to see the flush on Will's face, and because he loves how Will tastes when sweat seasons his skin. Will is standing as still as a deer in headlights, but he has antlers and they're lowered against the oncoming car. Hannibal will be skewered if he makes one wrong move.





	Pomegranate Seeds

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first contribution to the Hannibal fic world! I haven't finished the series yet but this is circa sometime in Florence I guess? but without Bedelia. Or maybe with her. Who knows, I don't.
> 
> I'm not sure how tagging things here would work since it's based in Hannibal so I'd expect people to...anticipate cannibal fantasies and stuff like that? But I'm sorry in advance if something needs tagging and please let me know and I'll add it.
> 
> Enjoy!

Every interaction with Will is like extracting the seeds of a pomegranate. Sometimes the seeds come easily, once the skin is split and the fruit torn open. They are eager, leaping into the coaxing touch of gentle fingers and warm water. Other times, it is necessary, however unfortunate, to rip them from their haven of flesh and skin and pick out the bitter remnants after the fact, to be thrown away and discarded.

Today is, possibly, going to be a coaxing day. But Hannibal must tread carefully.

Of all the interactions Hannibal remembers, dissected and catalogued in the library of his mind reserved just for Will, he has yet to figure out what triggers each kind of response. Despite his coaxing, his advice, and his help, there is some random part of Will's nature that he has yet to harness. It excites him; the deer leaping left instead of going forward; the bird choosing to plummet to the ground and chase its own death rather than let itself be shot down mid-flight.

Will has his back to him, which is nothing new, but it is of note. Hannibal savors the sight of Will's shoulders, the strength evident in the muscles of his arms even under his clothes, the way his capable hands fidget and shiver against the books on Hannibal's shelf like he can empathize with them, as well, and can absorb the tortures memorialized on their pages.

Will turns his back on Hannibal for one reason and one reason only; it is a carefully calculated flirtation, the temptation of his flesh, the vulnerable spine, the back of his neck. Will weighs every moment the same way Anubis weighs the hearts of men against a feather, but the dice are loaded and the condemnation is pre-ordained.

Hannibal approaches him, slow and silent. Will doesn't move, but to think he is unaware is naïve, and could prove fatal. He approaches and does not speak, doesn't make a sound until he is at Will's back, Will's shoulder lining up with the center of his chest.

He's warm, his scent so undeniably sweet. Hannibal keeps his rooms warm now, just to see the flush on Will's face, and because he loves how Will tastes when sweat seasons his skin. Will is standing as still as a deer in headlights, but he has antlers and they're lowered against the oncoming car. Hannibal will be skewered if he makes one wrong move.

His fingers curl when he lifts his hand. _Carefully_.

Hannibal's touch lands in Will's hair. It's long enough to curl around the back of his neck again, obscuring parts of his throat from sight. But Hannibal can be patient. All the best hunters have to have some level of patience. He slides his hand into Will's hair, cradles the back of his head, and Will's curls nestle between his fingers like kittens against their mother's belly.

Will lets out a tiny, breathy noise. The only reason Hannibal hears it, he knows, is because Will drew him close enough and allowed him to. Will's eyelids flutter, but don't close. He can't afford to close his eyes with a predator so near.

Hannibal smiles and buries the expression against Will's shoulder. He takes in another deep breath, slides his free hand across Will's flank. Will's nails dig into the edge of the shelf of books in the same way that Hannibal's nails dig into his clothes. He idly entertains the idea of growing his nails longer so that Will's thick sweaters no longer offer any protection, but discards the notion quickly. There are much more delicate parts of Will that he would not harm for the sake of this one small pleasure.

He cups his hand against Will's stomach and presses his nose to Will's hair when Will shivers. The blush on his cheeks is beautiful, the pink innards of the finest cut of meat. His teeth sink into his lower lip and Hannibal thinks about feeding Will sausage made from his own gut.

Will's skin is dewy now, heat and anticipation making him damp in Hannibal's hands. His heartbeat throbs against Hannibal's cheek when Hannibal nuzzles his shoulder. The hand in Will's hair curls, retreats to his throat, and Will gasps when Hannibal slides his hand around Will's neck, tilts his jaw up and fits his hand there like two pieces of broken glass.

He pulls at Will's stomach and forces Will's back against his chest and Will lets go of the shelf, trembling in his hold. Fear has turned his scent bitter and Hannibal sighs. He lost his patience, ripping instead of coaxing, and now pieces of the pomegranate's flesh are clinging to Will.

He loosens his hold, cupping Will's exposed throat. The way his flesh turns white under the pressure of Hannibal's hand is enchanting, the pace of his heart hypnotic. Hannibal slides his hand down Will's stomach to where his sweater ends and dips under it and his shirt, touching bare skin. Even though Will is quiet and still, his body leaps up to Hannibal's touches, eager to be consumed.

Will swallows, the tendons and muscles in his throat flexing under Hannibal's touch. After a second of stillness, tripwire-balance where the feather might outweigh the heart, Will turns his head, dips his eyes, touches his mouth against Hannibal's jaw.

"I believe you've caught me, Doctor Lecter," he says.

Hannibal smiles. "Or, perhaps, the other way around," he replies, unmoving. "Are you my prey, or have I been lured as yours and soon you will take me from the water?"

Will huffs, smiling just enough to show his teeth.  He lifts a hand and curls it around Hannibal's wrist, coaxing Hannibal's touch away from his throat. His hand leaves a white line that quickly turns pink. "That late already?" he asks, and Hannibal nods, releasing Will's stomach when Will lowers his hand and leads Hannibal by the wrist to the master bedroom.

The room is pristinely kept, the bed made with no wrinkle or fold out of place. The sheets are a Christmas red, the duvet and pillow covers are gold. Sometimes Hannibal thinks about cutting Will open and dyeing the sheets the richer, darker red of blood.

Will walks into the room and releases Hannibal's arm, and pulls his sweater over his head without ceremony. He lets it drop, discarded and messy, and although his back is turned Hannibal knows the pleasure he gets from disheveling the bedroom in such a cavalier way.

He creates a trail of breadcrumbs in his clothing and goes to the en suite bathroom. By the time he closes the door, he has bared his back and thighs. Hannibal swallows and starts to undress himself. He knows Will takes his time in the bathroom, and he can afford the simple pleasure of shedding his clothing of the day. Each piece of the expensive suit, the polished shoes, the gold cufflinks in the shape of ram's heads, is removed with patience. It is a training exercise, he tells himself. Will is someone who incites impatience in him, and if one moment of weakness is to be permitted it will surely breed more.

This cannot be allowed.

Will emerges from the bathroom when Hannibal has replaced his suit with a thin white t-shirt and soft lounge pants. His chest and neck are pink, hair wetted down and curling behind his ears, and the cling of his underwear leaves little to the imagination.

Which is acceptable. Will has enough imagination for the both of them.

Hannibal smiles at him and Will climbs into bed, pulling back the covers with a particularly pointed air of disarray. Will is in the mindset to be coaxed, but clearly, he wants to rip. Hannibal hums and slides into place on the other side of the bed. There is only enough light to see by from the glow of street lamps on the road below, and they cast everything into a warm, yellowy haze. This is the kind of thing people sour their meat with intoxicants to experience.

Will sighs quietly, and turns his back again. Another flirtation; another lure.

Hannibal swims closer, settles down on his side on the bed and slides across the small space between their warm bodies in the bed. Without clothes the air is chill and goose bumps are breaking out along Will's arms. Hannibal settles his hand on Will's hip, above the sheets, and Will lets out another breathy, sacred sound.

"I must be very easy prey," he says. He so easily adapts a tone that is both self-flagellating and smug. He knows exactly how each quiet word, each tremble, and each slant of his expressive eyes affects Hannibal: deeply, a tug on his instincts that overpowers higher function.

"Or very good bait," Hannibal replies, and Will laughs. Never ceding, no ground given. Will twists so that his shoulders are against the mattress and the long, graceful expanse of his neck is exposed. Hannibal's eyes are affixed to it, nailed there without his permission.

Will puts a hand in Hannibal's hair, pets back the shorter locks at the front so that his face is not hidden. In this light, Will's eyes are the color of sea-glass. He's been beaten and shaped by the ocean currents and now he's shining.

"I would keep you in a glass tank," he says, low with something like affection. "The great Doctor Hannibal Lecter, come one come all." He trails off, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. His eyes drop to Hannibal's mouth, then back up. "But you would see me in a cage, in the ground."

"I would see you memorialized," Hannibal says.

Will huffs, smile lopsided, a flint-strike of anger in his eye. He drops his gaze again and his fingers follow, backs of his knuckles caressing Hannibal's temple, cheekbone, jawline. He curls his fingers in the neck of Hannibal's shirt like he so lovingly and shakily touches his books, and tugs, and Hannibal leans in.

Will doesn't allow Hannibal to kiss him. He never has, and he likely never will. But the way Will's forehead rests on his, the way their noses brush, right to left and back again, is so astoundingly intimate that Hannibal feels he has a hand around Will's beating heart, forcing it to match the rhythm of his own.

Will's hands flatten on Hannibal's chest, map the jut of his collarbones and the swell of his muscles, and then he twists his hands and yanks the material upwards and Hannibal leans back, allowing Will to block his sight and revel in that brief moment of vulnerability. Hannibal's belly, his neck, the full arteries in his underarms, are all exposed at once and if Will desired he could lean up and rip his teeth through any of them.

But he doesn't. Hannibal tosses the shirt onto the floor and Will is still there, pliant and pretty. Will swallows and Hannibal fights down the pang of injustice that he didn't get to feel the action under his hands.

He reaches for Hannibal, pulls the weight of him across Will's body like the tides cover cliffs. Their noses brush again and Will's lips part just as his thighs do, letting Hannibal sink between his legs. Hannibal wants to taste his mouth, desperately, but it is one pleasure Will does not allow him. It is one piece of sacred ground he cannot surrender.

So instead, Hannibal tilts his head and presses his mouth to the gunshot wound on Will's shoulder. His brain bristles with aggravation at Jack – the muscle here is lean and fine, but tainted now with lead and scar tissue. Will shivers, like he knows what Hannibal is thinking, and threads a hand through Hannibal's hair.

He cradles Hannibal against his flesh like a mother with her baby, and lets Hannibal suck the sweat-sweet skin, savor the bloom of blood as he coaxes it to the surface in a dark bruise. The mouth is for consumption, for the very act of devouring, and Will gives himself up to it so sweetly.

Hannibal places his hands on the arching bones in Will's hips, imagines slow-roasting the meat until it falls off the bone and then burying them within this mattress so that he might always sleep between Will's thighs. His mouth moves, done with this inch of beautiful skin and on to the next.

Will's breath stutters, his hand clenches when Hannibal kisses his marks. Some of them are days old, some of them brand new.

"Hannibal," he breathes, glazed eyes half-open and brightening to the color of iron wrapped in blue ice. He only calls Hannibal by name when he's trying to appeal to his better nature.

And perhaps conditioning goes both ways, because it works. Or at least, Hannibal allows it to work. To this moment he's not sure, because Will is asking for the thing that Hannibal wants to give him, so who wins if he surrenders?

He removes himself from Will's skin like tearing the peel from an orange and Will gasps, his chest heaving as he clutches at Hannibal's hair. Hannibal drags his nails across Will's hips, traces the taper of muscle and bone until he reaches Will's underwear.

He wraps his fingers in the material and pulls them down, exposing the most delicate parts of Will. He's as beautiful here as the rest of his body is, flesh tender and pink and arching up readily into Hannibal's touch. His scent here is sharper, not the fevered sweetness of his sweat.

Will laughs, folding one hand behind his head. "You can't have it both ways, Doctor Lecter," he says. His victory is won now, so Hannibal's name is tucked back onto the shelves of the library to gather dust.

"Oh?" Hannibal asks.

"You feed me what'll sweeten my meat," Will says. "Doesn't sweeten everything."

Hannibal hums, and wraps one strong hand around Will's cock, stroking slowly. Will hisses, like he didn't expect Hannibal to actually touch him, and lets go of Hannibal's hair to rest on his stomach instead. He digs his nails into the underside of his scar like a handhold.

Hannibal squeezes Will's cock gently, coaxing a single bead of precome to gather at the slit. He takes it onto his thumb and lets go, lifting it to his mouth to taste. Will's eyes are wide, the flush of arousal spreading down his chest as he watches Hannibal consume the only part of Will he can.

He hums, releasing the skin of his thumb with an audible sucking sound, that ensnares Will's spine and shakes it. "You're right," he says, finally. "I may have to reconsider your diet."

Will smirks, but his reply – if he planned one – is lost when Hannibal prowls over him again, his hands greedily tracing every contour, every rise of his ribs, the softness and give of his skin. Will conjures a hunger unlike what he's felt before, born of restraint and the destructive knowledge that he cannot act on these wishes in any way that would satisfy him.

Will has become an unreachable, untamable force of desire in Hannibal's life. The emotional satisfaction of killing and consuming him would be fleeting when compared to all the days that would linger after his body is gone. There are only so many meals, after all, a human body can provide. But like this, he can consume and devour Will over and over again, marinate him in satisfaction and mutually assured destruction and reap the benefits for years to come.

He meets Will's gaze and remembers how Will could hardly look at him before. Will meets his eyes steadily now, shrined in the darkness as they are. Hannibal's hands find Will's thighs and slide inward, and it's Hannibal's turn to shiver when he feels that Will has already prepared himself, and he's slick and warm and welcoming to Hannibal's touch.

"Perhaps one day you will give me the honor of doing this myself," he says.

Will smiles, showing his teeth. "I wouldn't give you the satisfaction," he replies.

Every night, Will retreats the bathroom under the pretense of washing his face, brushing his teeth, whatever else he needs to do, but the reality is that he does this just so that Hannibal can't. Like his mouth, like the soft touch of his lips, Will denies Hannibal everything that he is able to, until the cracks in the armor turn into fractures and split apart.

Hannibal smiles, proud in the pit of his stomach at Will's defiance, and rears up. Will follows him, dragging his nails across Hannibal's bared chest, and only goes still when Hannibal puts a hand in his hair and forces his head back.

Will's eyes flash and Hannibal swallows. _Coax_ , do not rip.

He lets Will go and slides back on the bed, enough that Will can pull his legs together and, after another moment of eye contact with the stag lowering his horns to the oncoming car, Will turns. He slides onto his stomach like an otter slipping into water. The sheets pool and bunch around his body and the color of the red looks positively garish when compared to the sight of Will's blood-sweet skin, pink and warm when Hannibal settles over him again.

Each part of him is made to be devoured – of this, Hannibal has absolutely no doubt. He puts his hands on Will's shoulders and marks the exit wound of Jack's bullet, leans down and kisses that second reminder of his failure to help Will become, the first time around. Will puts his hands under the pillows, head turned to one side, eye slitted like a cat watching a mouse creep its way closer.

Hannibal leans down and breathes deeply from Will's hair. He smells like mint and lemongrass. Wonderful seasonings for pork. "Up," he says, cupping one of Will's hips and forcing him to lift himself, offer up the bare, hot center of him. Hannibal can feel Will's thighs trembling around his own, holding weight and feeling in the muscle. He wants to cut Will, relieve the pain like the pressure from a cramp, but resists.

There are other things he can relieve, now.

The tips of his fingers dig into Will's tender flesh, holding him by the tendon, his other hand covering Jack's gunshot mark and forcing Will into a curve that would enchant all students of mathematical perfection. His back flexes, rolls, settles into place. He is the finest thoroughbred in the starting gate, pulling at the bit and ready to leap.

Hannibal smiles, pleased when he finds Will positioned just right, and withdraws his hands so that he can pull free the bow at the top of his lounge pants and push them down his thighs. Will remains still for him, panting.

He wants to pull Will apart and bury himself inside him, plant a seed so deep it will have no choice but to fester and grow and there will be no chance of ripping it out. Hannibal falls over Will, one arm framing Will's and joining his hand under the pillow, the other coaxing Will's flesh to meet and melt to his, to create a place where form and function combine.

Will's breathing turns ragged. His shoulders flex and rise to Hannibal's mouth and he tilts his head back when Hannibal's free hand finds his neck and pulls him upright. His throat is damp under Hannibal's touch, his body unbearably warm now. The slide of the sheets on his skin, under his knees and elbows, is a symphony all its own.

Hannibal kisses at Will's shoulder, just shy of the exit wound. "Are you ready, Will?" he asks.

Will swallows hard and Hannibal treasures the way his Adam's apple presses against his palm. "Yeah," Will replies, his voice rough. Hannibal doesn't ask a second time.

His hand leaves Will's under the pillow just long enough that he can touch himself. He wraps his fingers around his cock without ceremony, eyelids fluttering at the pleasant touch. He shifts his weight and guides his cockhead against Will's hole, sets himself there until he's sure he will be received.

Will shivers, a brief moment of peace falling over his body, and Hannibal pushes inside.

He grabs Will's hand under the pillow to keep him down. Will hisses under him, gritting his teeth as Hannibal sinks into his body, unable to stop the low moan of pleasure he lets out. Will parts for him as graciously as butter parts for a warm knife, every single day Hannibal has this he thinks it might be the best time.

Sex is not the most romantic form of violation, nor the purest way to give and receive pain. It would be more intimate to slice Will's skin from his body, soak in his blood, and bury his bones in the mattress, but that is the kind of gift Will can only give once.

Will lets out a tiny, whining breath. It's desperate, wrecked from the inside like Hannibal tried to rip his heart out through his teeth. Will's hand finds Hannibal's under the pillow and forces their fingers together, colliding and locking like two dogs at each other's throats. He squeezes tight enough to hurt.

Will's other hand reaches for Hannibal, tugs him by the hair and guides him to Will's nape. Sweat curls his hair, darkens it and sweetens it in a way that reminds Hannibal of winter chocolates and snow-slaughtered plants. He moves, sinking deeply into Will, using the recoil of his body like a gun to jerk back and press the advantage again.

Will is tight around him, fever-warm, slick enough to move and only just enough to move. Another carefully calibrated action on his part – Will, for all he likes to fight and flirt, craves the pain Hannibal leaves behind when the night gets too dark to see and they finally rest.

Hannibal releases Will's neck and puts his mouth there instead, braced against the bed as he starts to move in earnest. He drives little gasps and moans from Will's open, pink mouth and it sounds like Will sounded when Hannibal gutted him. Whether that is by design – for Will knows the mating calls of all animals as surely as he knows what kind of bait to use for what kind of fish – or it is as unintentional as the sweetness of Will's sweat and the fire on his tongue, Hannibal cannot say.

Will pulls his knees closer to his stomach, puts his weight on one shoulder and reaches back with his free hand to stroke himself while Hannibal fucks him. It is a decadent give and take, catch and release. Will tightens up around Hannibal and Hannibal, in turn, is compelled to drive him loose again. He wants his thoroughbred exhausted beyond breath, wants the wolf to rip its throat apart from howling, wants the stag to break its antlers and the bird to plummet to the ground.

Hannibal drives deep and Will's breath hitches, body rolling to meet Hannibal's now. Every thrust is received like a gift, every withdrawal treated like a terrible injustice. Hannibal tastes the desperation on Will's skin, smells the serotonin.

Will moans, some bastardized combination of Hannibal's name and a curse stuck behind his teeth. Hannibal slides his hand up to Will's mouth and covers it and Will moans again, dropping his head and shoving his forehead against the sheets.

Hannibal closes his eyes, his lips finding the tender flesh of Will's shoulder, shy of the spine where the skin bunches under pressure, and kisses the spot, sucking another blushing patch of red to Will's skin. Will moans, a tremble in his spine betraying how much he likes it when Hannibal marks him.

Hannibal pulls back with a growl, his body separating from Will's like stitches ripped from a wound. It leaves Will ragged, broken open and bleeding, and Hannibal moves his hand in time to hear the raw, desperate moan Will lets out. He's shaking, close but not close enough, and Hannibal coaxes him down to his stomach and rolls him onto his back.

He fits his hands behind Will's knees as easily as he did under Will's throat and pushes them up, forcing Will to spread and expose himself to Hannibal's gaze. Will sucks in a breath, his cheeks red, his lips dark from biting them. Oh, how badly Hannibal wants to dip his tongue between them, learn the taste and feel of Will's mouth against his. He wants to feed Will sweet meat and lick the flavor from his mouth, wants to taste the wine on his tongue so thoroughly that he can get drunk off it.

Will's eyes flash and he reaches up, digs his nails in Hannibal's chest. They're blunt just like Hannibal's are and he thinks Will might want to grow them out, too. He wants to gore Hannibal at his most vulnerable and intimate moments.

Hannibal smiles, and lets go of one of Will's legs, wraps it around his waist, and guides his cock back inside of Will's body. This is the sacrifice Will gives him, his pound of flesh before the altar, and in turn Hannibal gives him a heart to weigh against a feather.

Will rips, Hannibal coaxes. Such is the way of things.

He leans down, Will's calf on one bicep, the push-pull of desire and denial fighting them. Will's hands go to Hannibal's hair and Hannibal's free hand cups Will's cheek. Will is looking at him like he did the last time they were both in Hannibal's house, desperate, pleading for an alternative to what he knew to be true.

One of Will's hands is on his cock, stroking himself to the double beat of Hannibal's thrusts, the drumroll preceding the hanging man. He turns his cheek into Hannibal's palm and lays an open-mouthed kiss to Hannibal's wrist. Hannibal feels teeth and shivers.

He leans down, kisses the sweat from Will's neck. The hollow of Will's throat beckons him, it begs to be filled with blood and wine and anything else Hannibal can offer. He licks into the crevice and Will whimpers, tightening up around him. His thigh flexes and the hand in Hannibal's hair tightens.

Hannibal knows he's close. Will's heartbeat jumps on the precipice of orgasm, the scent of him gets sharp, his eyes go dark and tend to turn greener. These are all details Hannibal has borne witness to, catalogued and learned and added to his extensive library of knowledge on Will Graham. This, at least, contains reactions he can anticipate.

He puts his hands against the backs of Will's thighs and sinks in, doing his best to satisfy touches in the places Will needs him most. He knows when his cockhead strikes Will's prostate – Will's face tightens and his breath hitches, cock swelling and turning a darker red in his hand. He's leaking onto his stomach now, the scent of him heavy in the air.

"Please," he whispers, doe-eyed and sleek and so incredibly beautiful. Like the streets of Florence, Hannibal knows one day he will be able to draw this scene from memory alone, and his sketchbooks will soon be full of Will in all his debauched glory. "Hannibal, _please._ "

Hannibal doesn't answer – Will isn't expecting him to. He speaks because some buried, prey-animal instinct in him understands the predator in his bed. Will lured him here, or Hannibal chased him here, it doesn't matter when pleasure is clawing at their throats and threatening to rip them both apart. He cries out for Hannibal because he can no longer cry out for God.

Will's orgasm comes slowly, and starts in the base of his spine. He shudders, hips sinking down and dislodging Hannibal's grip on him. He takes his hand away from the head of his cock and wraps his fingers around the base instead, coaxing himself those last few steps before he starts to spill onto his stomach.

The white contrasts rather beautifully with the dark scar on his stomach, like string wrapped around beef wellington. Hannibal licks his lips. Will's thighs tremble, falling lax around Hannibal's waist when Hannibal lets them go. His mouth is open, gasping, breath heaving as he tries to catch it, bites at the air like his lungs are flyaway birds and he intends to catch them by the tailfeathers.

Hannibal smooths a hand through his sweaty hair, knots his fingers tight, and starts to move again. Will is sensitive, Hannibal can see it hurts, but he doesn't tell him to stop. Will is a glutton for punishment, greedy for Hannibal's terrible inclinations. He offers himself up by the neck and cries out loudly when Hannibal goes still, fucks in, and bites down hard around the gunshot wound in his shoulder.

He wraps a hand in Hannibal's hair, but not to yank him away or cause pain. The instinct to nurture is not a new one, but Hannibal has carefully cultivated Will's need to tend to him. A slave to each other's instincts and needs as much as their own.

Hannibal growls, releases Will's tempting flesh, and pulls out once his body is done emptying itself inside of Will. He refuses to let his hands shake, will not for one second let Will know how much he affects Hannibal. But Will knows – he is, after all, remarkably good at thinking like Hannibal does.

Will's eyes flash and he smiles, off-kilter, more like a snarl. He pulls his legs together and pushes himself upright, withdrawing from Hannibal like warmth follows sunlight over the horizon. Hannibal swallows and grabs Will's underwear from the bunch of covers at the foot of the bed, handing them to him.

Will stands and puts them on. His back is littered with pretty kiss-marks, his neck and chest similarly bruised. There are prints in the pattern of Hannibal's hands on his hips, his hair is fluffy and ruffled. He looks beautiful, down to the bone.

Will looks at him. His back isn't turned, not anymore. He bites his lip, eyes raking over Hannibal as he is, still kneeling and supplicating in the altar of their bed, and Will steps forward and reaches under the pillow on his side.

He frowns.

"I moved it to the bedside drawer," Hannibal says.

Will's eyes dart to the one he means. It's on Hannibal's side of the bed. He straightens up. "Kind of defeats the point."

"If you feel so unsafe that you keep a knife under your pillow, why join me here at all?"

Will's breath leaves him in a shaky, disbelieving laugh. He bares his teeth and swallows back his retort. Then, Will shakes his head and rubs both hands over his face, through his hair. "Goodnight, Doctor Lecter," he says, and turns towards the door. Hannibal watches him go, aware that though Will's back is turned, as always, he is completely aware. Will's body disappears from sight and his presence disappears from the room as he leaves Hannibal's bedroom and goes towards his own. The door closes as quietly as a mouse and as loud as a gong.

After a moment of consideration, he gets up and locks the door from the inside. He grabs Will's hunting knife from the bedside table and places it under his own pillow, and falls asleep with his fingers wrapped around the handle.


End file.
